There’s movement twenty minutes later. A man steps into the frame—no hesitation or glance back—as he walks straight to the curbside mailbox.
He’s tall with broad shoulders and a trim waist. The camera doesn’t catch his face, but everything about him is confident.
He’s dressed in dark clothing. Not a drifter. Not some drunk off Bourbon Street who wandered too far. This man came with intent.
The footage is grainy, but the porch light hits his profile for a single beat—sharp jaw, straight nose, short dark hair.
I pause. Rewind. Pause again.
Not Jon David. And definitely not Callum—that venomous fuck.
This man is taller and broader.
He reaches into the mailbox, pulls out a single envelope, glances at it, then lifts his phone.
Click. He takes a photo.
My heart doesn’t race. It riots.
He slides the envelope back in and pulls something from his pocket—the napkin. He smooths it flat against his palm, then takes a pen and writes across the surface.
He slips it into the mailbox, turns, and walks away. He vanishes into the dark, erased without a trace as if he were never there at all.
My pulse thrums, not with fear but with certainty. This man didn’t stumble onto my doorstep by accident.
He came after me.
I set my phone down, slide the napkin into a clear plastic sleeve, and seal it shut—handling it with the care of evidence in an open case. Not a keepsake or something to romanticize. Proof that someone dangerous was here, acting with purpose.
I grab my laptop off the coffee table and open it, fingers flying across the keys.
Subject: Surveillance Footage of Trespass and Stalking Incident
Tobias,
Happy Saturday! Sorry to bother you on the weekend.
I’m attaching surveillance footage captured at my residence last night. At 1:34 a.m., an unidentified male approached the property, accessed my mailbox, photographed a piece of addressed mail, and left a handwritten note inside. There were no signs of forced entry or theft. I’ve also included a photo of the message for reference.
Please document for the record. Let me know if you need anything else from my end.
—Laurette
I hit send and lean back, expecting silence today—Saturday, his day off. Twenty minutes later, my phone lights up with his name, and I blink in mild surprise.
“Got the footage,” he says, voice clipped, all business. “I’ll swing by and check out the mailbox myself. You home for a while?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
“Good. Be there in an hour.”
He hangs up. No small talk. Typical Tobias.
He doesn’t have to ask for an address. This isn’t his first time at my house because of a threat to my safety. He’s the one they send when things cross the line, when a case gets too heated or a defendant too bold. He’s been here before, taking statements about letters and photos and messages meant to shake me.
Only this time it’s different. It’s personal. And I can feel it.
